


twenty coppers

by biiitchofCambridge



Series: dragon age shorts [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alistair and Evony are brown, Alistair and Morrigan Have Potential to be Bros, Alistair and his stupid FUCKING TRAPS, Alistair's rose, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arl Eamon is a bitch and you cannot convince me otherwise, Biracial Character, Bisexual Alistair (Dragon Age), Bisexual Character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Classism, Canon-Typical Violence, Casteless, Commoner Dwarf Origin, Dwarven Culture, F/M, He canonically dumps a non-human Warden, I downloaded the Bi Mod for DAO and love it bcc this will never happen canonically, King!Alistair - Freeform, My Brosca is also hella bi, The Caste System, They Co-Parent, This is sort of a character study, get ready for the shit im going to put these two bastards through lol, not relevant to the story but he's bi fight me, sorry fellas but alistair gets his drink on whenever hes sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biiitchofCambridge/pseuds/biiitchofCambridge
Summary: It was wilted and long-dead, halfways crushed from being at the bottom of her bag for so long. But it still smelled like it was new, and it still had thorns that scraped at her callused hands.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Brosca (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: dragon age shorts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571539
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. evony brosca; paragon of the ones no one wants

**Author's Note:**

> So I was playing DA:O (as one does when they are supposed to be finishing a project) when I noticed you can sell Alistair's rose for twenty coppers. SO this little-- idk, wip?-- grew in my head. I'm trying to get back into the flow of writing and posting. This was unbeta'ed and frankly written in, like, half an hour, so be patient with the terrible flow lol.

She was a Paragon of Orzammar, but she still checked in bins for things to sell for a handful of coppers-- old habits die hard. Zevran used to make fun of her, _Such a pretty face shouldn’t be digging over piles of such filth,_ then he’d jump right in with her-- a dwarf and an elf digging in the trash for some coin because that’s the only thing they’d ever known. She misses Zev, more than most of them she thinks, in some ways. He was a true beauty-- she wished she could bury her face into his warm chest, his hair oil wafting in the breeze, the creaking of leather hugging her closer. She and Zev were only friends, but sometimes she wondered what would’ve happened if she had’ve taken their night together more seriously. She wondered that for most people, actually.

She put the few errant jewels in her purse, straightening and dusting herself off. King Endrin would need her counsel soon, as he was a complete moron when it came to successful darkspawn raids and that seemed to be her forté. She trudged through the crowd; they easily parted, some bowing their heads in respect, most simply ignoring her. Once, when she was first proclaimed Paragon, a member of the former Warrior caste spit at her feet. She punched him in the face and managed to not get any blood on herself-- Ricah was so proud of her scrapping sister managing to keep clean. 

“Ev,” she’d said, “you’re making our ancestors proud.” The brand on her face was dark brown, sort of orange-- it matched her freckles. Evony’s was a soft golden-pink to match her warm brown skin-- Ricah and Evony looked miles apart in looks, but they smiled the same-- pretty lips widen and their noses scrunch.

_Alistair used to kiss her nose whenever she found a reason to smile,_ her mind thought. Thinking of him was not direct poison, now anyways. When she first thought of him, her whole mind would turn red and she would not do anything but pace and stack books-- something he did with her. He taught her to read; she hated it, so he would stack books and make her read the titles-- when the pile was gone, he’d choose a book to read; she’d sit in his lap like a dog and watch him finger at the funny symbols as he read. He was a good reader and was very patient. Sometimes when she thinks she’ll pick up a book and read it leisurely, maybe when the smell of books doesn’t remind her of how his lips would look nipping down her thighs, or how strong his laughs were when she pranked Ohgren.

Her hand touched something soft in her bag. She stalked to a building, searching for a scrap of privacy in a filthy alcove that no one but a duster would hide in-- when she saw that no one was here, she pulled the rose from her bag. It was wilted and long-dead, halfways crushed from being at the bottom of her bag for so long. But it still smelled like it was new, and it still had thorns that scraped at her callused hands.

She hadn’t known what it was at first; grandiose flowers were only things for the diamond quarter. When she accepted it and kissed him, he told her what it was-- Alistair was never condescending, but stupidly loyal. He’d strained his ankles and legs (and one time his whole left forearm) on countless traps because he was an idiot that cared far too much about his fallen comrades. When Morrigan was seconds away from being mauled by a shriek, he’d hopped over four genlocks, threw his sword at the shriek and impaled it as he landed on a large bear trap-- Evony remembers how he shrieked louder than any sharlock ever had-- Sten had to hold him down so Evony could pull the pins out to release it without him ripping his calf muscle worse and both Wynne and Morrigan had to heal him.

He’d laughed later the night when she’d tucked his leg under the blankets. “I’m so loopy off of elfroot-- I can see why the Revered Mother prohibited us from using it.” 

She’d not noticed her tears until one dripped onto the ugly flower. She sniffled, wiped her eyes and put the rose into her bag. She marched over to a stall and sold her findings-- the shopkeep, an elderly woman with a short brown haircut asked about the rose; “I’ll give you twenty coppers for that-- you’d be surprised what kind of stuff people will buy if you’ve owned it.” She grinned, her eyeteeth capped in gold. She was the only shopkeep in Orzammar that hadn’t spit on her before she became a Paragon.

“Keep your money,” she left the rose on the counter, turning and leaving. When she fully cleaned her bag out that night, there was a single withered petal in the very bottom-- she held it to her lips and cried. _I love you, always_ was a load of fucking _nugshit._


	2. alistair theirin: king of lands he does not desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "High-born Orlesian Lady makes new bastard King cry like a little bitch" OR "Like she never loved him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't see myself updating this relatively soon, but here i am. enjoy, whores! happy holidays (merry christmas as this was written and published at like, 12:21 am on 12/24/2019 lol.)

“A man of integrity never would abandon the woman he loves,” Arl Eamon boasted over dinner, “correct, your Grace?” 

Alistair looked up from his plate-- Orlesian food made him think of that _disgusting_ cheese that Leliana fed to him once when he was drunk. Orlesians made him think if that puke.

“I suppose,” he offered a half-there smile. He had sent Anora back to Gwaren, where it prospered. He should’ve let her stay-- while she wasn’t fond of him, she was incredibly smart and frankly beautiful. Besides, he couldn’t have children, but she would give hope-- there wouldn’t be such a force for courtships if she were here, too.

Cômtesse Felicité du Cheval was a woman of good breeding and better health-- she was tall, slim, modest in dress and vernacular. She was agreeable, well-versed in language, court and schooling. She had innocent, blue-grey eyes and very long blonde hair; so long it touched the top of her skirts. Alistair should like her, truly, but he doesn’t. She doesn’t drive him mad, nor does she interest him. She is too soft, too feminine. Her nails are delicate. Alistair felt sick once she touched him; pressed her dainty hand into his palm, waited for him to kiss it. He did because he wasn’t as asinine as he looked, but it didn’t feel right.

_She_ would kiss his busted up knuckles every night; then she’d kiss down his wrist, the crook of his elbow, then fake (or sometimes real; he was a _stinky bastard_ ) gag on the smell of his armpit. Then he’d laugh, roll them over, and kiss her bow-shaped lips until they were as red as his cheeks (and not always his _face_ cheeks-- she slapped his ass more she cursed, and every third word was _fuck._ )

“Your Grace,” Felicité asked, touching a fine finger to his hand-- his calluses were lessening, his belly softer than it ever been his entire life, his heart lonelier than when he was six years old and covered in lice and dirt-- “Would you like to take a walk with me?” She asked. Her lips were thinner but pouty. 

“Sure, er, _yes,_ please...Cômtess,” he obliged lamely. She smiled serenely at him, excusing herself from the table. Arl Eamon winked at him in passing; Alistair felt a cold dread swallow him up.

She swayed when she walked; willowy and poised. _She’d never walked on an icy lake in her smallclothes because someone dared her to, she’d never kissed a codfish and take a shot, she’d never lick a lamppost in winter just to be funny._

“May I call you Alistair?” She asked, stopping at a door leading to a balcony-- it overlooked the Frostback Mountains. They were on the Ferelden side of the divide, but you’d figure it for Orlais with all the fucking arbitrary buildings made of marble and painted in emerald.

“In private,” he offered through a bored smile. He watched a little elf servant dash to one end of the courtyard to the other, a tiny rat dog yapping at his heels. He felt himself cheer up, but only by half a degree.

“I was in the market in Val Royeaux looking over the wares,” she sighed, “when I found a peculiar man. He was a dwarf, with blond hair and a fantastically braided beard. He called himself Bodahn,” Alistair perked up immediately.

“He said he knew you and had something that you would desire. Before coming to meet you, I had hoped to win your heart in love,” she pressed the palm of her hand to his chest, “but I cannot win what’s already been won.” She pulled an object from her skirts and left it in his hands-- tears sprung into his eyes almost immediately.

“Perhaps you should write her a letter,” she whispered into his ear-- she smelled like spearmint and green peas-- Alistair hugged the rose tight to his chest, giving her a thankful smile.

“Thank you,” Alistair choked out. He stayed hunched over the rose, his hip leaning against the railing.

 _“Au revoir,”_ she replied, winking back at him, her fake eyelashes fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Alistair looked down at his hands. A thorn had cut him through his softened royal hands-- he put his thumb to his lips and thought of nothing but her fingers in his mouth, her loud shrieks as he tickled her, the wrinkle in her brow when she won against a particularly difficult hurlock. He thought of how she looked when he told her _No more,_ and how she looked when she asked for the Grey Wardens boon-- like she’d rip him apart with no remorse. Like if he died on the battlefield, she’d leave a bucket of fish guts behind to attract the bears to finish him off. Like she’d _never_ loved him.

Alistair remembered watching her go back to Orzammar-- how the new Warden Constable whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek before she left. He was an elf, scarred but beautiful. Whenever they had meetings Alistair couldn’t help but hate him. 

He smelled the rose-- it still smelled new, and its thorns scraped at his palms-- he desired his calluses back and the woman who kissed them goodnight and good morning each day until he was too fucking _loyal to that bastard_ to say _no._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF I UPDATE, get ready for the angsty-smutty scenes that i will force myself to write-- sexy times and screaming as they have 'hetero' sex? ok, boomers.


	3. the letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t think of much negative when his whole mind was focused on the good memories. And, Andraste preserve him, there were many good memories of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the disappearance!! lots has happened to me recently and i'll have another busy week next week, but i'll try to update when i'm free! the story is getting there lol!!!!

The invitations were sent a month before the celebration’s anniversary. Everyone had replied back in one way or another-- all except her. Alistair really shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. But he couldn’t help it.

Arl Eamon was getting more aggressive with suitors every day. They could not have any form of communication without him alluding to yet  _ another _ young woman with great breeding and greater fertility-- perhaps, since Alistair was so young, he could still have children with someone who wasn’t a Grey Warden.  _ But if they don’t have her smile, what’s the point? _

Alistair was half-inclined to just give in and visit the brothel-- despite everyone teasing him about what a prude he was, he had had sex before. Evony somehow managed to convince him, Zevran and Isabela to all join in. That night makes Alistair’s back tingle in  _ many _ different ways. The way Evony curled her hand behind Isabela’s head and gave her a kiss-- the smile she had, just before he would nibble across her hip bones. How she didn’t shame him when Zevran bent him over Isabela’s great map table and--

He drank. He’d have to prepare a speech for the opening to the week-long celebrations; he didn’t feel that he had to do it sober.

When he thought of her-- her lips, her hips, the way she’d dip into a bath with such delicate motions despite being as feminine as him-- he’d take a quick swig of wine. While he wasn’t a fan of alcohol, he could see the appeal of drunkenness. He couldn’t think of much negative when his whole mind was focused on the  _ good _ memories. And, Andraste preserve him, there were many good memories of her. 

This one time, just before they went to Orzammar to gain the dwarves’ affections for the Blight, she’d told him about the place.

“As long as you’re with me, no one will ever think anything about you being a bastard,” she teased. Alistair couldn’t remember if her eyes were more hazel or brown that day.

“Why’s that?” He snorted, “‘Cause I’m too tall for them to get a good look?”

“No,” she flicked his ear, “‘Cause I’m a duster and they’ll be too busy spitting on me to even notice you.”

“I don’t know about that; I’m pretty good looking.” He jested. Then she turned the conversation’s tone.

“I know that, but do you?” Then she’d crawled from her place on her side of the tent and onto his lap. Her breasts her tucked under his chin, her hands held onto his jaw.

“Maker,” he remembers blushing so hard his neck burned. Then she kissed his mouth oh-so-sweetly, tracing the baby nicks caused by errant blades around his face, running her hands over the stretch marks on his arms and hips. How she made him feel without even touching his--

Alistair was drunk. And because he was drunk, he decided this was when he’d make a poor decision. Because that makes complete sense. So he found a nice piece of parchment, his favourite quill and ink-- it was dark green and dried quickly so he wouldn’t smudge it with his awkward left hand.

  
  


_ Dear Evony, _

_ I suppose I should start with an apology, but you always hated how I said sorry because I looked like a little lost puppy. But I’m just a dumb dog, and you know that. So. I’m sorry, to start. I’m so, so, so sorry for ever making you feel like I stopped loving you. Because, obviously, I haven’t. I’m just so loyal to people who owe me nothing-- perhaps Morrigan is smarter than she is cold. Maybe. Don’t tell her I said that if you still talk to her. Speaking of which, would she have had the demon baby yet?? _

_ Anyways, I guess I’ll tell you why I said what I said, and why I regret everything I’ve ever done ever. Because I do, except for the things I’ve done with you-- you’re the first person who I think I’ve ever felt really loved by, as sappy and creepy as that sounds. I don’t know why I’m even writing you this, you’ll probably throw it into a lava pit and spit on it-- not that I’d blame you. But, if you have a weak spot for a moment, I hope you continue reading. I love you. ALWAYS. _

_ We broke up because I thought I was being guided by a man of pious wisdom, but it turns out that he’s a piece of shit, just as you observed. I think you said that anyway. You said many things about him that related to shit or piss or how much of a prick he was (and still is). I guess I should make my own mind up about things; you always protected me, from battle to bed. But in many ways, you made me more of a man (haha, caboodling joke, please don’t rip this letter up JUST yet,) than Eamon or Teagan or even Duncan made me. Oh. They didn’t have sex with me. Anyways! Sure, they make sure I don’t trip up around Orlesian courts and taught me how to really use my shield, but they didn’t teach me how to be me, and not to be afraid of that. You always owned your decisions, even when they were dumb or silly, and that was so beautiful about you. Even when you felt low and self-conscious, there was an air of confidence that I was so awed by-- you’re so hot, I love that, too. Maker, I hope if you ever see me again that you punch me in the face for everything I’ve ever said. I’m so drunk. Like, a whole bottle of wine. Oghren would be so proud, maybe so proud he’d stop calling me gay. Speaking of which, you are so right, Zev was the prettiest out of all of us. Well, almost-- you’re cutesy whereas he was just snarky-cute, you know? _

_ I’m sorry I made you angry, and I’m sorry I’ve ruined everything between us for something as dumb as class-- I, of all people, should’ve realized how that would make you feel-- and I’m sorry if that took any kind of blow at you. Because you are NOT inadequate; you’re the wisest, smartest person I know. You always know what to say and when to say it, you don’t have to ask questions because you just get it… Maker, you’re fit for royalty and I was dumb enough to think I didn’t need you. WOW. I understand why Morrigan thought I was so stupid-- I can read, but I can’t read a room. I can add and subtract and multiply and divide, but I can’t balance a budget or even really make one. _

_ I’m not writing this so you’ll pity me and have sex with me (although I do miss the, ah, saucy bits), but I am writing this to let you know I am a complete and utter fool, that I miss you more than I’ve ever missed anything my entire life, and that I love you. Always. Even if you fucked all of Ferelden in front of me, I’d still love you. Even if you kicked me in the balls so hard they popped off, I’d still love you. Even if you don’t love me back anymore, I still love you. _

_ Before I get any sappier, I think I’ll end here. I don’t expect a letter back, but I just wanted you to know that. And that I found the rose I gave you-- I hope you made a pretty penny off it, and that you bought those gloves for yourself that you never could find because your hands are so small.  _

_ In adoration, _

_ King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden; Denerim Castle _

Then he folded the letter with as much skill as he could muster and spilled only a little wine; the drop of that warm purple reminded him of that birthmark she had on the outside of her thigh, where it almost creased with her buttcheek. He felt his face grow hotter-- he blushed an abnormal amount on a good day, but when he was drinking he blushed five times more than usual.

He put her letter into its envelope carefully before sealing it-- he burned his hand on the wax, making him think about how she used to bite him when he did that thing with his--

He addressed the letter to her. He swore, even the next day when he was sober, that he could smell her peppermint perfume as he kissed the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to get more 'sexy' in this-- teasing for later chapters I guess? idk. But anyways! I explored Morrigan and Alistair's relationship-- they don't hate each other because of who they are, but how they interact with people. Morrigan doesn't trust or want to help common man just because she can, but Alistair does. He also gets fucked over constantly by those he loves-- he lets himself too far in, whereas she doesn't even give people a chance. Make sense? 
> 
> tumblr: @ biiitchofcambridge


	4. alistair theirin; pauper to what he truly desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know the feeling,” Zevran placates, “but not for long. Letting a ghost of someone keep me from living my life seems almost like another death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever, im so sorry fellas!! school kicked my procrastinating ass and I frankly just want to drop out :(, but ANYWAYS, here's an update!! I'm trying to play around with flirty dialogue, so enjoy that teehee >:)

Alistair had given his speech-- visiting dignitaries gave him high praise. He was dressed in rich furs with a high collar, his shaggy hair combed from his face and held back by his sturdy gold crown, imbued with garnet and pearl-- his auburn hair took the red highlights better when there was red around, he knows. His favourite colour, however, is hazel. His undertunic says so-- close to his breast like a poorly-kept secret, almost like him. His outer vest is a warm brown-red, and a cape that falls just above his heel of furs so thick he feels a sweat coming on. His trousers are a calf-leather, a softer brown than his skin; they match his freckles, which only emphasizes them spraying his warm cheeks. His boots are a darker brown, and despite Eamon’s fits and Teagan’s teasing, he’s wearing knee-high socks over his pants; they peek over his boots just enough to reminisce him of a schoolgirl, or a whore playing up the aesthetic of youth, to which he finds funny as the Orlesians smile with approval until they reach his  _ dreaded _ knees. Small revolutions start small-- he’s silently protesting the imprisonment of whores in Orlais.

His friends, if he even really has any, hooted and hollered as he gave his speech. Leliana looks beautiful-- she has a dress of lilac that is simple, hugs to her body in ways that he appreciates, but knows neither would do anything more than appreciate. Zevran wears black leather pants and a loose tunic that billows with the candlelight; it remains stark white, even when Oghren spills his wine. Shayle is there, and they’re excellent-- tells tales of successful raids and manages to refer to him as  _ Ser _ , which is so strange. Morrigan is not present, Sten had sent a letter of gratitude, Wynne is off busy with mage duties but did send a long letter. He’s yet to read it; it was not the correspondence he desired.

His friends didn’t ask about her; Shayle gave them an official apology, saying she was unable to attend due to an unplanned raid-- Alistair knew it was shit the minute Shayle said it. If Shayle was anything, they were fiercely protective of her. They hardly let her lead, most days; letting her climb up on their shoulders and directing their movements like a young child at a carnival.

So, when the dinner was through, he retired to his private chambers to drink himself into a lonely stupor-- this was a week of festivities, and he did not want to think about that, if only for tonight. But, as his horrific comrades came to visit him, he found his drunkenness denied.

Zevran brought a smile, a firm hug, a letter. It was from Morrigan, ironically. Zevran lounged like a cat in Alistair’s grand bed while Alistair paced in a quick, agitated read; his brows were pressed in the middle, pinching his face. He half-mumbled the letter, flipping its single page with a frustrated motion.

> _ Dear King, _
> 
> _ First and foremost, the pregnancy was a success and your son is in good health-- he, thankfully, takes fitfully after me. ‘Tis well, however, that he bares your smile when he’s done something foolish, which is something I think Evony would enjoy. _
> 
> _ And yet you broke her heart, like the foolish man you are. She told me to write to you, begged almost. And you know she doesn’t beg, so this is entirely her bidding only. I have not yielded my location to her, however, so I win at something-- solitude. But not everyone is built for that life. Especially you. _
> 
> _ You, an overgrown preteen boy with a cock of steel, broke my greatest friend’s heart-- smashed it onto the ground like that amulet she stole for you. But no Arl will take pity and glue the shards together once more; only you can make that binding. Only you can ease her hurts, and I do believe that means going to Orzammar on hands and knees and licking the very stone she walks across. And, I do hope you lick well; she venerated your slack tongue. _

> _ She and I were lovers for a time, and you know this; she was the only person in the entire world that was always on my side, the only person in the entire world I have cried in front of-- she is the greatest person I have ever known, and when I saw her fall for you, I knew that I could not contain her love-- she is like that. Quick to jump into care, forgetting herself; refuses to fall in love, refuses comfort in pain-- but you forced that upon her like I minced my words and could not enrapture her enough. That is my single regret in life-- I could not keep her. But, you had her and... You. Let. Her. Go. Like a triumphant fool; like a human king with no regard for his harem. I hate you for this, and know it now, that if I could have her back, I would. But I cannot bring myself to, even just to spite you. She hurts for you, still. A year later, a cycle of the seasons. I cannot imagine loving her any less than the day I first laid with her, but her love is fading gradually. I still deeply care, down to the marrow of my own bones, but I would not risk my life as I would’ve in the past-- call it motherhood, or the passage of time, but I have my own life to live, and as do you. _

> _ You owe her as much to mend the ties you slashed like a moronic fool or to move on. I implore you to move on-- she has many chasing after her affections that could out-do you easily-- but, in my heart of hearts, I beg you to talk to her. And I do not beg. So, step down from the pride that you wear as a crown and seek her out in the Commons on the last day of the festivities, as she told me in recluse that she would visit those she helped and those she wishes to see. Do not breathe a word of these plans, and do not fuck up you complete and utter tool. You leeching vermin. Love her wholly and respect her greater than anyone you’ll ever meet, because if you do not, I swear on our son’s life that you will wake up a eunuch and a mute-- a goodbye to the slack tongue she loves and the balls the nation reveres. _

_ Helpful notions, _

_ The dreaded swamp witch _

For a while, Alistair said nothing at all, just drank some more wine. Zevran’s chest was a warm, dark olive-brown. He felt his cheeks deepen to a crimson-- he remembers how the salt tasted from between his pectoral muscles.

“Are we not going to discuss your red cheeks?” Zevran teased; his hair was long, pin-straight and smelling like sugar. He was so beautiful, so naturally exquisite, that Alistair’s nose starts blushing. He’s grown, too-- where lean muscle once was, it’s now coarse and under a fine layer of fat that only emphasizes strength. He’s leaning against the mound of pillows with his arms stretched out like wings, one leg curled under his bottom, the other stretched out. He must’ve taken off his boots because his stockinged feet are out, and he too is wearing knee-high socks, although his are a baby blue, while Alistair’s are a muted mustard.

“No, we aren’t,” Alistair mumbles, avoiding looking at Zevran. Zevran laughs-- a soft thing-- and catches Alistair’s eye despite his attempts otherwise.

“We shared a night, Alistair, not years-- do not act so prudish.” He grinned, his sleepy eyelashes catching the light and looking as blond as his hair. His eyes were a dark, hazel green that made Alistair’s throat choke up-- if his eyes were just a few shades darker, a little more brown around the pupil… Alistair folds Morrigan’s letter carefully and pockets it.

“I’m not acting prudish, I’m just trying not to think about… that.” The tips of his ears warmed.

“Well, I can’t help that I’m irresistible to the mind.” Zevran winked, relaxing his pelvis in a lax manner, the tattoos peeking through the deep plunge of his shirt. Alistair buttoned the top button of his vest and heaved a heavy sigh.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time she and I--” he choked, “Can’t even  _ rub one out  _ without feeling fucking  _ guilty. _ ” he buried his maroon face into his hands, felt the embarrassed tears cool the insides of his fingers. He was so  _ warm _ .

“I know the feeling,” Zevran placates, “but not for long. Letting a ghost of someone keep me from living my life seems almost like another death.”

“Why are you so wise when you’re drunk,” Alistair whined, “while I’m just  _ dumb _ .”

“I drink when I wish to feel comforted, you drink when you need no filter,” Zevran teases, then his face softens, “may I stay in your bed with you? Platonically? I am too drunk to functionally go back to my rooms, and I do miss how we would press back-to-back as it grew colder.”

Alistair chuckled, “That was nearly docile; are you growing cumbersome in the tongue?”

“I only grow cumbersome when someone  _ uses _ their tongue, thanks very much,” Zevran smiled cat-like. Alistair unbuttoned his sweaty vest and slipped his boots from his feet-- he flopped onto the bed, his hairy abdomen out in the open air. He looked down at his stomach.

“I fear I’ve gotten fat in my first year as king,” Alistair sighed.

“Isn’t that a sign that you’re eating? You were so skinny during the Blight,” Zevran teased, sucking his cheeks in to make himself look gaunt.

“I have never been skinny my entire life, even when I was seven and starving,” Alistair grumbled, throwing the back of his hand over his face-- his crown had been placed back into the bankroom, but he kept getting ghost sensations of its tightness on his temples.

“Well, I suppose we all must be chubby at some point.” Zevran sighed. He tugged his shirt from its spectacular tucking and revealed his stomach-- Alistair used to be able to count all of Zevran’s bones, even after they started feeding him better; he now had a layer of fat filling the divots, his muscles still obscene.

Alistair blew a raspberry, leaned his head further into the soft ticking, and almost fell asleep.

“You should write her a letter back. And I’m not talking about Evie,” Zevran smiles kindly at the nickname he gave her the instant they met.

“Fat chance,” Alistair gruffed.

“Almost as fat as your ass?” Zevran sang coyly-- Alistair scoffed again, trying not to laugh.

“Much fatter, although I doubt that’s possible to show you. My, ah,  _ bottom _ , is quite large.” Alistair blushed brighter. “But in all seriousness, I’m very drunk and very tired.”

Zevran cooed, “Aw, is the king sleepy already? It’s so easy to tire you; speaks little on that Grey Warden volume,”

Alistair’s chest pinked, “Andraste’s flaming sword, would you quit trying to make me blush? I can’t do anything else but die from overheating.”

Zevran laughed from his chest but thankfully fell silent. A soft breeze blew through the window, and Alistair quickly fell into a lush sleep, contentedly warm and extremely comfortable. Zevran moved down to his side, where they laid beside one another, just enjoying each other’s presence.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chubby Zevran and Alistair are valid. Platonic boy cuddles are neat. Angst and (i think?) the end is next!! get ready, children!!!!!


	5. reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this does it, babies. my first finished fic lol. cw for sex at the end, plus alcoholism bcc alistair's drinkin' like a dying man.

Evony had forgotten what the sun felt like on her skin-- it burned her eyes and made her feel warm, but in a different way that being underground did. Like she was being warmed from the outside in, versus a blanket of heat that Orzammar could provide in the Diamond Quarter.

She enjoyed the envoy; she’d missed Ferelden’s peaceful countryside, even the brisk cold. It was hard to believe she hadn’t been here in over a year-- it felt like a lifetime had passed. 

Zevran had sent her a letter, followed by Shayle’s correspondence; they suggested she come for the last three days of the festival, as that is when many dignitaries take their leave; she could then enjoy her time quietly before publicly announcing her arrival on the last day-- Zevran recommended that she just come for the last day, but Evony wanted out of Orzammar-- it may be her home, but she loved the sun more than she loved  _ anything  _ about Orzammar. Shayle’s letter said that everything was in great spirits and that she would be safe from all angry mobs or parties. Evony still had her knives, however.

Evony liked riding horses, too-- truth be told, she missed the flora and fauna more than she missed the people-- She liked the tall horses; they made her feel superior to everyone’s little prancing ponies. Boy followed behind her, his barks joyful and content-- he loved being outside, away from Orzammar and its frustrating lack of sunlight, or fresh bones to chew.

She stopped in Redcliffe but did not visit the castle-- that would be unwise of her. Evony knew she’d grown as a person-- before becoming a Grey Warden, she would’ve dumped a cloth sack of flaming nugshit at each entrance just to send a message-- but now she was older, and much more uncaring of those unimportant to her life.

* * *

Alistair awoke with a firm pounding in his temples and a warm back on his-- he smelled sugar and softened leather. “Zevran?” He half grumbled.

Zevran rolled over and hugged him from behind, pressing a kiss to Alistair’s hair, “Oh, how I do love waking up to you,” he teased.

“Quit being a shit, I need to get up and plan my grand gesture for Evony!” Alistair rolled from the bed, ruffling his hair in the process. As soon as he stood from the bed, however, his mind pitched forward while his body did not. He flopped back onto the bed, bile lining the inside of his mouth like a paste.

“Dear Alistair,” Zevran sighed, standing from the bed with ease, “Evony hated grand gestures more than you hated Morrigan.”

“Well, I can’t just show up with a cod and my thumb up my ass,” Alistair complained crossly. Zevran chortled.

“Of course you could, she’d  _ love _ that!” 

“Well, I’d prefer not to-- I do have a reputation to uphold now, sadly.” Alistair carefully pulled himself up from his large bed, surveying out of his balcony windows. The sun was present, peaking over the Chantry peaks of marble and gold. It washed his face in an orange glow, emphasizing the age lines he’d gained after becoming King.

“You chose to stay,” Zevran said softly. And there was nothing Alistair could say to refute that, so he said nothing at all.

Breakfast was being served; Alistair had new clothes on-- a plain tunic of royal blue stitched with silver thread and grey woollen pants, reminiscing of new Warden uniforms he’d commissioned for the serving Orlesians. He was envious of them, in many ways. He missed being on the road, seeing new things and trying interesting foods. He learned of cultures in his own time, but always under a veneer of political politeness and only the appropriate parts. He missed visiting whorehouses and trying shine behind fish markets-- he missed Clans, how they interacted with him and how their language sounded. He loved frybread, too, missed it very much. He couldn’t go to visit the Alienage without a full guard, and then he couldn’t eat anything without it being  _ tested. _ And he demanded to be left alone, but every time he did, the guards would ignore his requests,  _ Arl Eamon told us to watch out for you, sire; knife-ears cannot be trusted, you know this. _

He swirled his porridge around in his bowl, avoiding anyone’s eye contact. Leliana brushed past him, squeezing his shoulder in passing. She took court down at the end of the table, where all of his friends were seated. Alistair was surrounded by youthful girls, one as young as seventeen-- they all vied for his affections, but his mind was long gone between the capable hands of Evony Brosca’s.

Leliana caught up with him after breakfast; her hair was pulled up into a decorative bun, where it was held in place with a silver comb decorated in Andraste’s Grace-- her neck looked slim and fair, revealing peach-coloured freckles. She was lovely, and he remembered how Evony always made it a habit to tell her so-- She wore a dress of deep maroon, so dark it was almost brown; it revealed her pale shoulders, emphasized her small bosom and broad hips. Leliana was hip-heavy but very fit. She had a smaller butt than Alistair, and he blushed at the thought.  _ Why am I checking everyone out? _

“Hello, Alistair.” Her mouth was glossy and she smelled like flowers. 

“Hullo,” he replied glumly.

“I heard you had some issues with your  _ plans _ ,” she smiled, “and I thought I could help,” she whispered.

“What did you have in mind?” He perked up immediately.

* * *

Evony did not miss Orzammar, but the farther she was from Rica, the more she wished she was home. Endrin, her nephew, had already tried to be assassinated twice. He was a little over a year old. His hair was like Bhelen’s-- dirty blond. He looked nothing like the Brosca’s, but he was every bit one of them. He laughed like Evony, he sneezed like Rica, he babbled and toddled around just like Evony used to. He pulled hair and tugged at dresses and  _ always _ had some kind of bandage on-- he fell and hurt himself almost every day.

She had gotten a letter-- it had been sent to her and was carried by a merchant dwarf. She thanked her profusely, ripped open the envelope-- 

> _ Dear Evony,  _
> 
> _ It has been significantly quieter in the Diamond Quarter since you’ve left. Endrin and I miss you very much. He asks me every day when you’ll be back-- he misses you more than his father most days, but I am not shocked. May the Stone be with my husband, but he is not good with his son. _
> 
> _ Mother is in better spirits-- yesterday marked her year of sobriety. I am shocked she gave it up, but you must be moreso. You’ve only ever known her as an alcoholic. _
> 
> _ Please write back before you leave, and please include a drawing. Endrin dearly misses your “doodles”. _
> 
> _ Deepest consideration and affection, your sister, _
> 
> _ Rica Aeducan (and Prince Endrin!) _

Evony, right on the back because vellum was expensive, drew a fantastic model of the horse she was permitted to ride. She was a tall, stout black mare with a shorn mane and docked tail-- she was powerful and strong and very easy to ride. She had thick legs, a thick behind, a strong arch of a neck and a long, graceful torso. Evony called her Paragon-- she had no name, and she wanted a mount for her surface travels.

She set camp about a day away from Denerim; she bathed in the stream, looked around for berries, enjoyed her downtime. She drew thousands of flowers, trees and angles of Paragon-- she almost had forgotten her purpose, until she flipped to the front of her journal.

> _ To my love; Enjoy your newfound words and doodles. I hope you share them with me. ~ xx, Alistair. _

* * *

His plan took days to calculate and he sat in plain patience; he kissed more Orlesian ass than any whore ever did. But he waited for his time. Alistair had everything set accordingly-- he wore red, her favourite colour on him because it highlighted the red in his auburn hair, and he was doing what he did best-- making a  _ complete _ ass of himself.

He sat at the Alienage gates and had a grand festival— he danced with commoners, gave the guards a day off, kissed babies and got so drunk he puked in a lovely older man’s petunias; the elderly gentleman laughed at the King, and the King laughed at himself.  _ Andraste, _ he thought,  _ I’ve missed this. _

He waited the whole day, avoided Eamon like he was four-years-old and had to have a bath, played with little elven children and retold stories he’d been told by Keepers; he raced and sang and didn’t give a  _ fuck _ about what a bunch of crusty Orlesians thought-- his citizens loved him. He could feel his approval heighten; even the smarmiest, most anti-rich people he’d ever seen gave him a half-smile.

He waited until noon, then until dinnertime, then until nightfall-- she did not show. But he did not lose hope. He slept in his carriage, Zevran watching over him with a knife strapped to his thigh like a murderous prostitute off to kill her customers and rob them back to life. He awoke to a plate of frybread from that elf Evony spoke highly of. Her name was Rosie Tabris, and Zevran was silent in her presence. He turned pink when she kissed his cheek; Alistair sat, hungover and dumbfounded, at Zevran’s crimson ears.

When Arl Eamon all but dragged him back to the castle later that day for his finalizing speech, he felt like his head was full of cotton. Morrigan, yet again, played into his naïveté. He wanted to throttle her, but he wanted to throttle himself.  _ Of course, she did not want him. _ Why would she? He was cruel to her, threw her away like she meant nothing. In truth, Alistair always wondered if he was the one who meant nothing.

* * *

> _ Dearest Evony, _
> 
> _ I want to say the oaf bought it. I did not reveal any of your detailings, nor did I mention your plan. But please, if for my sake only, make sure that fool does something extravagant and utterly asinine-- if so, I’d like a word-for-word transcript of his act, and I want it signed by him. I thank you for the drawings, Kieran is very attached to them, and I thank you for the boots for him-- he loves to kick his little feet in them. And no, you will not meet him, yet. Give me my time, love. _
> 
> _ I deeply cherish you, _
> 
> _ The dreaded swamp witch _

* * *

  
  


Sulking was Alistair’s favourite pastime, arguably. He wanted a poster explaining this:  **FERELDAN’S WHINIEST KING.** After his closing speech (which mostly just contained cheering from his largest populace, the poor), he marched up to his rooms and fell face-first into the ticking, where he passed out from sheer depression. He heard soft footsteps; he assumed a maid was in to prepare him a bath, where he would have to scrub himself raw and then go kiss more Orlesian ass so he could keep tariffs low.

There was a hand on this ankle. Sometimes the Arl would ask the maids to take his socks off-- constriction of the toes lead to poor speeches, or so Eamon’s wetnurse had said for years-- but then the hand travelled up his calf, constant pressure and soothing. The hand pressed into his muscle, carved the ache from his tired legs. Its thumb pressed sweetly into the curve of his knee, smoothed the uncomfortable collection of fabric from the divot-- it traced farther and farther up his thigh until it cupped his asscheek with a tense hand.

“I’ve missed this the second most,” she whispered into his ear. Her voice, hard and sassing, was smooth like pebbles and soft like fresh spring grass.

“What have you missed the most?” He whispered from his place, face-down on the feather ticking.

“Your smile,” the bed dipped with her weight, and her heat invaded his own. She smelled like creek water and the sun; when he rolled over, her face was bathed in low torchlight and it only proved her to be all the more savoury. He pulled her into his lap, sitting up as he crashed his face into her neck.

Sobs wracked his body; she held his face from a distance, her eyes firm but her mouth shaking. She was mad at him, but not in such a way that was unforgivable.

She slapped him in the face, the only time she’d ever struck him with malignant intention. He accepted it with grace, and then she began to cry. Evony just  _ didn’t _ cry. She buried her head into his chest, crying her emotion out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, rocking her gently. She rested her hands on his goofy ears, a tear-stained smile decorating her mouth.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m sorry for--” but before he could finish his sentence, she kissed him. Evony kissed like she was a fire and his lips were tinder; his face burned with arousal as she wiped her tears from her eyes as she clasped her thighs around his.

“No blubbering, please.” She whispered-- the woman who could sweet talk her way out of knifepoint and fight like she was Death herself-- she whispered oh-so-softly.

“I thought I’d remain strong and fight my anger out with you,” she whispered into his left ear, before kissing his strong, thin nose and continuing, “but when you marched in here without any sense of your surroundings, crashed onto your bed like that,” she kissed the space between his eyebrows, “I thought I couldn’t keep myself from holding you. But I fought with myself instead.”

She slid further up his legs, his hard-on caught in-between her warm thighs. She was wearing a long, thin dress made of silk. It bunched at her knees and revealed her heavy breast-- he could hardly tear his eyes from her slick mouth to even notice.

“Why would I want to go to a boy that doesn’t love me? But I know you do, did and always will. But you still managed to toss me aside? But wouldn’t I have done the same if my sister demanded it so?” She sighed breezily, staring into his eyes. Her hair was done up, high into a swirl of pin-straight black bun with her fringe out and curling in the humid-heat of Alistair’s sweaty proximity. He fingered at a lock beside her temple, reached to the back of her head with his other hand and scratched at her balded scalp there-- he brought her sweet face to his and kissed her harder than he ever had in his life.

“I love you, always.” He whispered into her heaving cheek-- a tear touched his lip and he drank it quick, his tongue darting out to catch it. She moved her face and offered her mouth instead-- his tongue in her mouth was comparable to a victory in Orlesian court; hard-won but blissfully worth every second of the fight.

“I love you, too,” she smiled, her lips pulled tight, her dimples forming fast and  _ that _ spark growing in quicker succession.

Then she pushed him back and began to grind-- it was slow, patient, teasing enough for him to nearly blow himself but enough to keep his blood from boiling over-- he reached for her hips, and she slapped at his hands, instead placing them at her chest. She pulled her dress over her thighs, tantalizingly fast. The dress was a baby pink, matched her skin-tone like blood runs in veins. She pushed her smallclothes to the side, let him catch a glimpse before she slid back and tugged him free. 

He hadn’t felt this hard since the last time she loved him-- he could barely get it up without her like his cock wasn’t even  _ his. _ He felt like he was going to burst at the seams and she’d barely even touched him. He wanted another glimpse-- he remembered how much he had to work before she let him dive into her thighs with his mouth, but that’s all he could think about.

“Can I--?” He interrupted. She was nearly about to sink down, envelope him quick and fast just so they could both remember how this felt--

“What?” She complained, beyond breathless.

He brought her to rest on his lower stomach, cradled her head as he flipped them over. He tugged her legs wider, dove between her legs with a question in his eyes. She giggled and threw her skirt over his head and he took that as confirmation. So he did what Morrigan told him to do-- use his  _ slack _ tongue.

* * *

> _ Dear Morrigan, _
> 
> _ Thank you for misleading me. You really could always bring the pettiness out in me; Arl Eamon is classism remade, of course, I’d go “slumming” to piss him off. You’re much smarter than any dirty apostate I’ve ever been taught about-- take that as a compliment. _
> 
> _ It’s good to hear about Kieran. Evony says he likes boots, so included with this letter I’ve sent a pair of boots-- they’re plain, down-home Ferelden. Please let my son know I exist and that I care for him-- our fatherless childhoods will never happen to our son, even if I am not in his life. Please.  _
> 
> _ Evony told me she loved me. She’s back in my arms, Arl Eamon is warming his own bed in his own castle in Redcliffe-- he has been ejected out of my inner circle and you’ll be happy to know that she’s taken his place as Orzammar’s representative. We’re to visit Orzammar in a fortnight to discuss better trade and our marriage. _
> 
> _ Spontaneity is not my forté, you know this, but I want to be with her, right now and forever. I missed how she looked in the morning; you remember? Like a rose flowering in the morning-light. Her eyelids are so soft, her lips settled plump. Remember that blush, how her nose pinked? How could I survive without that? _
> 
> _ She made me write this letter to you, enclosed with a transcript of our awkward first dinner. We had it in my chambers, her wearing my tunic and me wearing a pair of old linen pants that were way too small. She drew a picture of my ass in those pants, which is framed and sitting on our nightstand, but she made a second for you. I’ve autographed both; please don’t show those to our son. I’d like him to meet the dumbass, not think of me as one. _
> 
> _ I missed her, and you helped me realize myself, although through trickery and false pretenses. I’d forgotten what it's like to spend time with those who still have souls; funny it had to be the most heartless person I know. Perspective, huh? _
> 
> _ She and I wish you great regards. Please let us know if you need any help. She forced me to write that. I hope you come to visit us with Kieran. She didn’t force me to write that. _
> 
> _ Affections, _
> 
> _ The King of No Nation and the soon-to-be Queen of His Heart _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Script: Alistair gave Evony back her rose on their wedding night.

**Author's Note:**

> there may be a part 2, idk! also: fuck Eamon he's a thicc shit. also: enjoy my Brosca, she's my fav warden out of all of them. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr @ biiitchofcambridge ... I follow back as @ abbeyfangirl bcc idk how tumblr accounts work hahahaahahahaahahahaa. i might atually post stuff about my wardens/hawkes/inquisitors, idk. 
> 
> comments are welcome!


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